Michael Delaney banged his fist on the table. ‘Quiet, please, quiet! Alex,’ he shouted, ‘this is monstrous! Monstrous! It’s intolerable! We’ve come on a pilgrimage, for God’s sake. Why can’t we bury the poor man and move on? Haven’t they got a policeman in this place who speaks English? Tell him I want to speak to the Chief Police Officer in the morning.’
Alex wrote as fast as he could. The reply was short.
‘You’re not going to like this, sir. He says the Chief Constable will not be available in the morning. The Sergeant is going now. He says he’s late for his supper. It’s always bad for his digestion, the Sergeant says, to be late for his supper. His wife doesn’t like it either. He will see us here in the morning. His two men will be on duty here in the hotel all night, sir. To make sure nobody leaves.’
As Alex Bentley finished speaking, the Sergeant rose slowly to his feet and marched out of the room. One of his constables took up a position in the centre of the doors leading to the hotel foyer and the outside world. Delaney restrained himself with difficulty. He downed a glass of red wine at breakneck speed. A French priest, presumably the local cure, came in and began talking quietly to Father Kennedy in a corner of the room. Brother White joined his companions of the cloth. Wee Jimmy, who was closest to them, thought they were conversing about the funeral in a kind of prayer book Latin.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Michael Delaney at last. ‘Let’s try and approach this thing in a businesslike manner.’ It is one of the many differences between the French and the American character that the French attach great value to collective action. Fraternity. The Americans are suspicious of the state, and all in favour of individual initiative, of citizens taking responsibility for their own lives, rather than depending on others to do it for them.
‘Damn French police,’ Delaney began. ‘Useless, completely useless. If I don’t do anything else I’m going to get my own man to look into this death. Pinkerton’s, Alex, what chance of Pinkerton’s here in this dump?’ Michael Delaney had an account with the great detective agency Pinkerton’s in New York, enabling him to spy on his competitors all across the United States.
‘I doubt if there are any Pinkertons to be found anywhere in Europe, sir.’
‘Damn! We’ve got to find the top man,’ said Delaney firmly, ‘top private investigator fluent in English and French, able to drop whatever he’s doing and start immediately. Money no object. Anybody got any ideas?’
He turned to Father Kennedy. God might have some ideas. Plenty of contacts, God. ‘Your friend there, Father. Does he speak English?’
‘I’m afraid not, Michael,’ said Father Kennedy. ‘We’re conversing in Latin here.’
‘God in heaven,’ said Delaney. ‘Alex, can you take your ouija board over there and ask the man to help us find this bilingual detective. Tell him to ask his bishop, for God’s sake. And ask the bishop to ask his archbishop if he doesn’t know. Not sure where we go after the archbishop. Anybody else got any suggestions?
Oddly enough, it was the youngest member of the party who had the best idea. He might have been only eighteen years old but Christy Delaney was a very intelligent young man. His parents moved in sophisticated circles in Dublin.
‘Why don’t you ask the Ambassadors, sir? Telegraph them in the morning. Ask them to find you such a man.’
Delaney, unusually for him, didn’t understand at first. ‘Ambassadors?’ he said, looking at the young man in rather a patronizing way. ‘Ambassadors plural? Why plural?’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Christy, ‘I didn’t make myself clear. Telegraph the American Ambassador in Paris and the American Ambassador in London. They may not know the name of such a person but they will certainly know someone who will.’
‘Excellent, by God!’ said Michael Delaney. ‘Well done indeed. I’ll do it first thing in the morning.’ He wondered about offering the young man a job in the Delaney organization on the spot.
As the pilgrims made off towards bed, Father Kennedy was the last to leave. The food had all been cleared away. Looking wistfully at the doors leading to the kitchen he wondered what he had missed for pudding.
The French telegraph system was busy the following morning. Alex Bentley sent Delaney’s messages to the two American Ambassadors very early in the day. The priest sent word to his superiors. The Bishop of Le Puy was concerned not just about the death of a pilgrim in his diocese but about the damage that could be done to the good name of the town and its cathedral and the practice of pilgrimage itself. When he had dispatched his pleas for help to his brothers in Christ, the Archbishops of Lyons and Bordeaux and the Cardinal Archbishop of Toulouse, he sent word to the beleaguered pilgrims in the hotel. The Church, he assured them, would pray for their safe journey onwards in every service in the cathedral from this morning on. He himself proposed visiting the pilgrims in their hotel and, if possible, organizing some sort of service for the soul of the departed Delaney.
The American Ambassador in Paris, Bulstrode P. Wilson, had been in post for a number of years now. He knew France well. He thought he had dealt with every difficulty his fellow countrymen could encounter on their voyages to the strange lands of Europe. Pilgrims were new to him. He sighed wearily to his assistant that morning. ‘Get me the Minister of the Interior on the phone,’ he said, ‘then the President’s Private Secretary. And now I think about it, I’d better speak to the British Ambassador when I’ve finished with them.’
The Archbishop of Lyons did not speak English. He knew of no detectives. Privately he did not approve of these foreigners coming to France and murdering each other on French soil. To the Bishop of Le Puy he conveyed his inability to offer assistance on this occasion. The Archbishop of Bordeaux wanted very much to help these pilgrims for they and their successors would pass through some of his diocese on their way to Compostela. Honour and fame would attach themselves to his archbishopric. His congregation could only benefit, materially and spiritually, from the passage of these devout souls. But the Archbishop knew no English, he knew no policemen, he could only guess what a private investigator actually did. He too sent his regrets.
In the hotel the pilgrims were remarkably sanguine. Delaney had wondered if there would be a call to rebellion, people wanting to pack in the whole thing and return home. Father Kennedy reassured the doubters that they were doing God’s work. Alex Bentley and his notebook began the long process of translating for the Sergeant, returned to the St Jacques shortly after ten in the morning, as he began the interviews with every member of the party. Charlie Flanagan found himself another fine piece of wood in the hotel woodshed and began another carving. Jack O’Driscoll and Christy Delaney went to work on improving their French by ordering more beers in the hotel bar.
The Cardinal Archbishop of Toulouse was a more worldly sort of churchman. He was a secret devotee of the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. In his mind’s eye, for he knew Le Puy well, he could see Sherlock Holmes, cane in hand, striding up the little path that led up to the summit of St Michel, Dr Watson panting at his heels. The Cardinal was a veteran of ecclesiastical politics. He liked to think that his work in God’s cause had led to the election of the previous Pope. His enemies – and he had many – called him a plotter and an intriguer. He preferred to think of his activities as guiding his colleagues who might suffer from confusion and uncertainty into the right path, into voting for his candidate. The Cardinal hoped to live long enough to take part in the next Conclave to elect another Pope when the current one was called home. Maybe he should stand himself. The quest for this detective touched a distant chord with the Cardinal. Somewhere, he knew, at some international gathering not very long ago, he had met a fellow Prince of the Church who had talked to him of such a man, but he could remember for the moment neither the name of his colleague nor the name of the investigator. He sent word that he was making inquiries and praying for God’s guidance. He would be in touch.